


10 Things Black Sails

by Saetha



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 10 things Black Sails, Angst, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Peace, SEE NOW I DON'T EVEN HAVE TO TAG IT WITH 'AU' ANYMORE AIN'T THAT GREAT, also I'm sad the Walrus doesn't have her own character tag as of yet, happiness, she needs one :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: 10 Ficlets I wrote whilst season 4 was running, usually one written directly after watching each episode. As such, spoilers for the last season obviously.





	1. A cup [Flint & Miranda]

**Author's Note:**

> Quite a few of you have probably seen these on Tumblr but I'm very happy with several of them so I thought it'd be nice to publish them all in a collection here on AO3. One chapter per fic. Also, remember, I wrote these whilst the season was running so some of the facts MIGHT have gotten contradicted in later episodes unbeknownst to me ;).

The set of cups sits on a shelf in the store, slightly dust, but glinting underneath its layer of grime. It catches Flint’s eye when he enters; it does every time. Today, however, things are different. He nods at the shopkeeper and after a few words and a few coins the cups are being wrapped carefully and given to him in a small crate.

Miranda’s eyes shine as she unpacks James’ little gift. He delights in it, the same way the he delights in her fingers caressing the fine porcelain and the little smile playing around her lips. It reminds him of Thomas, oddly; Thomas always had the same gentleness to his hands and expression of soft joy in his eyes. Far too rarely has Flint seen it on either Miranda or him since they left England.

Miranda makes tea for them in the two cups and if Flint squints through half-closed eyes he can imagine that time hasn’t passed, hasn’t smashed apart their so carefully built sand castle with its big waves. He touches his cup almost awkwardly as he sips the tea, afraid the fragile thing will break in hands that have grown so cruel now in his eyes.

***

The teacups are always there when Flint returns. Always at the same place on a shelf, polished to a bright shine and thus almost looking out of place, a piece of a different life that has been ripped out and planted where it can never grow roots.

Miranda always gets them out when he comes. He doesn’t know whether she uses them when he isn’t there or not, but he does know that is always the same tea, always prepared with the same precise motions that will await him whenever he comes to visit. Slowly, a home emerges from the chaotic rabble of their lives. A home that will never be what it once was, but home nonetheless – built from Miranda’s rare smiles, the sound of the harpsichord in the air and the sight of tea in two spotless porcelain cups.

***

The teacups are covered in dust when Flint returns. They sit on the table, slightly tilted, as if someone had simply forgotten them there. Flint wonders whether the taste of tea is still clinging faintly to their sides. He reaches out as if to touch them – and then withdraws his hand without being able to. It feels like disturbing a crypt somehow.

He doesn’t look at them as he walks slowly through the house, tries not to let his eyes linger on the dust and sadness that has built up in here over the weeks. Perhaps he should be grateful that no looters have been here in the mean time; but somehow he only he feels empty. He wishes the cups would disappear.

That night, when he sleeps in Miranda’s old bed alone, he dreams of drinking the tea she has made and seeing her smile. Thomas is there, too; there are three cups now, just like the three of them were always meant to be a set. His eyes hurt when he wakes up.

***

The cups are broken. Flint knows he should not feel anything about it, cannot allow himself to. He has attempted to purge anything akin to softness from his heart since he knows that even a single crack could widen far enough to swallow him. And he cannot afford that. For the sake of Nassau, for the sake of his men, for the sake of what little he has still left. He cannot afford to break.

And yet; when his fingers pick up the shards, caress the once so shining surface and smear the dust on them, he can feel something inside him give way. He holds the remnants like a long lost precious gem, wondering what Miranda would say if she could see all this. What Thomas would say. What had once been such a treasure to a living, breathing soul is now set aside and disregarded and he cannot help but think that soon, he will suffer the same fate. Soon all that is left of the name Flint will be a whisper at the back of people’s throats, a dark memory covered in the dust of time. So easily forgotten.

Flint sighs and puts the shard down again, as gently as he would a child. What is gone is gone and no raging will bring it back.

If only the future would hold something else but dust and blood.


	2. A portrait [Flinthamiltons]

“You two should sit for a portrait,” James says, in the middle of one of their lunches. Thomas almost chokes on his soup, whereas Miranda only raises her eyebrows.

“And why, pray tell, would we do that?” Thomas asks him between two coughs, Miranda’s hand patting his back.

“Everyone seems to nowadays,” James shrugs. “Don’t you think someone might notice if there wasn’t a single portrait in this house of the two of you?”

Thomas still stares at him, incomprehension written on his face. Miranda looks suspiciously like she’s trying to cover up a laugh between two bites of food.

“And why would anyone notice? Or mind, for that matter?” she asks, trying to sound utterly serious.

“Aren’t you trying to avoid notice? Or at least appear like a standard couple from the outside?” James is feeling more and more like they are secretly laughing at him. He can sense his ears redden like they did since he was a young boy and others laughed at him for his dirty clothes. He had always been more than self-conscious about his upbringing and the lack of understanding of some high society rules that sometimes came with it.

“Aren’t we?” Miranda winks at him with a little grin that makes James’ ears flame up even more, although for an entirely different reason this time. _Scandalous_ would be the nicest word someone could use to describe what the three of them have gotten up to. “And even if we aren’t, what would a portrait change about it?”

“Well.” Now it’s James’ turn to cough. Thomas is still staring at him with that gaze that James has come to know only all too well. He is definitely about to say something that James thought he could keep to himself and-

“You want it for yourself. To take it with you. For your journeys.” Thomas’ glance is more than fascinated and also just a little touched.

“I-“ Surely James’ ears are going to burst into fire any second now.

Thomas and Miranda look at each other and James wants to whine inside his throat when he can see the deviousness in Miranda’s eyes.

“What would you like me to wear?” she asks.

***

Despite everything, James is grateful that the portrait is still at the bottom of his chest. Nobody can ever know that he has it; nobody can know that they have fled and where and that his heart is buried in this chest. He doesn’t tell Miranda about it either, not at first.

It takes weeks for him to finally take it out and he only does so when he finds Miranda staring at the wall one night, telling him softly that she doesn’t have a single picture of Thomas’ likeness.

“I am afraid of forgetting,” she whispers, and Flint can see his own pain echoed in her eyes.

He doesn’t speak a word but hands her the portrait and her fingers wander over the structure of Thomas’ face, the shadow of a smile ghosting around her lips.

He never tells her how often he has done the same, in those quiet moments when the cabin was locked and there was no danger of anyone seeing his heart bared, even if only for a split second.

***

He cannot find the portrait. Looters, fire and time have ravaged the house that had once been Miranda’s. Dust and broken things everywhere, it is a place where ghosts reside now. Flints thinks he can see a glint of white from the corner of his eyes again but he refuses to turn. He has laid Miranda’s ghost to rest, just as he once has Thomas’.

Flint thinks he recognises a slip of canvas in a corner, but when he wants to pick it up it dissolves into dust in his hands. He stares at it for longer than he should, unblinking until his eyes begin to burn.

He wonders if the image he has fixed in his mind of the two he has loved most in his life will fade and disappear as well, nothing but dust in the corners of his mind.


	3. A button [SilverMadiFlint]

Silver’s buttons are brass. They have been carefully chosen, down to their engravings – Silver has always cared about the way he appears, but now that his name is feared everywhere, they have to send a message just like everything else that he wears. They speak of attention to detail, are obvious without being too flashy; they show they belong to someone who knows who he is and what place he can take in the heart of men.

Ironically, it has been Flint who had given them to him. Flint, who has looked at him and the heavy blue coat he was wearing and taken him to the house that had once belonged to a woman named Miranda Barlow. There was a little wooden box there, unadorned and now covered in dust that held all sorts of buttons; with a nod, Flint had gestured at it and then at his coat.

Silver has always wondered who they belonged to first and how they ended up in his place, but the buttons that he has chosen suit his coat well. They leave right after; it is clear that Flint does not want to linger and Silver does not think he has the power to make the ghosts choking the man disappear. Not here, not where they are so strong that their cold touch makes him shudder.

Talking to Flint has always been easier when nothing of his past was between them, no physical reminders of everything that has passed. It is in such moments that Silver begins to feel a kinship with the man. Now Flint sits on a chest in his cabin next to him, his fingers deftly sewing the buttons to Silver’s coat. Not long ago, the silence would have made Silver uncomfortable, but now he is almost used to it, like an old blanket you shrug on when it’s cold and you need the comfort of warmth.

“There,” Flint says and hands the coat to him. Silver takes it and shakes his head at how neat the needlework is. Their fingers touch and for a second they remain in their position; then Flint stands up and stalks over to the door leading back on deck.

“Thanks,” Silver calls after him and Flint just nods, not saying a word.

Madi’s fingers run over the buttons later and there is a smile in her eyes when Silver tells him who has sewn them on.

“A man of many talents, Captain Flint,” she says, but does not elaborate more. But the smile stays on her face whenever she looks at him.

***

They might have been brass once, they might have been silver; the buttons on Flint’s coat are so tarnished by time and saltwater now that it is hard to tell. He has given up polishing them long ago; once he used to take pride in his uniform, the shining fruits of the struggle to get where he was. Now his clothes have ceased to matter beyond their necessity; he does not feel pride when he thinks about who he is now.

His coat is as black as the buttons on it and when one comes loose he considers for a moment not to put it back on at all; but it irks him, this slight misshapenness, and he frowns when he sits down in his cabin to sew it back on. Many of the pirates know how to repair their own clothes; there is no one else here who would do it for them. He was faintly surprised to find out that Silver did not seem to know how. But then, Silver is a man of many surprises, something wholly unexpected that has grown from the lousy rat he once was.

He can feel it whenever they stand side by side, whenever their arms brush and their skins touch; it has been a remarkable journey that has been privy to.

Madi laughs when she sees that his button has been righted.

“First his buttons, now yours?” she asks, her eyes shining with delight. Flint shrugs; he still isn’t sure just how they are standing to each other, but he does know that she is as formidable an actor in this game in her own right as Silver is.

“Why, is that a problem?” Flint replies testily. He is not about to be ridiculed for doing something that everyone should know how to.

“No. You two just…” Madi shrugs and for a moment sadness crosses her face before the smile returns again. “…remind me of my father and mother.”

Flint glares at her back when she walks away, but he cannot help but finger the buttons on his coat. _Father and mother_ , he thinks. He wonders what Miranda and Thomas would say, could they see him now.

***

Madi’s buttons are fine, almost invisible as they hold her clothes together. They have been carved by one of her father’s friends, as a gift for her when she was young; she has kept them ever since and they have changed clothes multiple times.

She curses when one of them springs off as she gets dressed, rolling across the floor and coming to a stop at Silver’s foot. He bends down to pick it up and give it back to her with a little smile and she rolls it in her palm before putting it in her pocket.

“Maybe you should ask Flint to sew it back on for you,” Silver suggest with a little glimmer in his eye.

“Maybe I will,” Madi shoots back. She doesn’t want to tell Silver that she’s never really had the patience for small needlework; her mother is good at it and she can do what she has to, but she takes little delight in it. And thus it is no wonder that they find themselves in Flint’s cabin not much later, his fingers patiently working the thread through the tiny button and the fine cloth beneath.

The two men in front of her are both conundrums, although each of a slightly different sort; the bond between them is of a kind she has seen before, in whispered words in the night and the fearful taste of what might be lost. Still, she does love one of them and respects the other more and more each day and little will ever change that; the three of them will be the ones to steer the fate of this part of the world, of that much she is certain.

If only that fate would go beyond blood stains in the sand and into a future that holds happiness for all of them.


	4. A shard [Anne Bonny]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: I changed Jack’s and Anne’s background ever so slightly so that he knew her a little before he offed her husband. Tw for implied violence/domestic abuse.

The lamp is in shatters on the floor when Jack opens the door and sees Anne sitting there, uncaring whether she is cutting herself on the shards. She is staring ahead, although Jack isn’t sure what she’s seeing; ever since he has first met her, it feels like she has been doing it more and more often.

Jack walks closer and then stops before he can reach out and touch her. Anne doesn’t move, doesn’t even seemed to have noticed that he came in. With every hour she seems to glide further away from him, lost in an ocean that he cannot cross.

“Hey,” he says quietly. There is a miniscule twitch of her finger, a sign that, on her, is as big as a nod of her head.

He sits down next to her, trying not to wince when he sees the bruises that are beginning to form on her arms. No husband, no partner, has any right to treat their partner this way and yet, Jack knows that trying to help would only make it worse.

Jack cannot tell how long they have been sitting there, but suddenly he can feel a weight on his shoulder. When he looks over he sees Anne’s head there as she is leaning on him. Her fingers are closed around one of the lamp shards, so tightly that there is a shimmer of red amongst them. In that moment Jack knows that Anne will one day kill the man who did this all to her – if he is not the one to kill him first.

***

It is Anne who rages when Charles Vane is dead. It is her who throws around the only fragile items she can find, a dish and a mug, until they shatter on the floor. She cannot understand how Jack isn’t raging too; he is standing at the window, arms wrapped around himself as if they could somehow replace what has been lost, catch a fleeting warmth that is long since gone.

“Why don’t you fucking say anything?” she demands when he still doesn’t turn around, even as she picks up another dish and shatters that too. The answer she receives is not what she expected – a half shrug and nothing else, and this coming from a man who usually has a lot more words than are good for him.

“For fuck’s sake, Jack!” She walks over to him and yanks him around by his shoulder, only to take a step back when she sees his face, wet with tears. She has always known that he cares, cares more about anything than is good for him, but even she is surprised by this display.

Her fingers open and close in vain and the words seem to be stuck in her throat. For a fleeting moment she wishes that Max was here; Max would know what to say. She always does.

Anne’s eyes travel to the shards on the ground and something inside her contracts, sharp edges cutting into the emptiness that is Charles Vane’s death, leaving her raw and bleeding and ready to tear out every Englishman’s throat with her teeth.

“He’s gone,” Jack says and it is all that he can force out. “He’s gone, Anne.”

“I know.”

That is when Jack wraps his arms around her and draws her close, the world outside them grinding to a halt. She is not aware that she is crying, but the wetness on her cheeks is coming from somewhere; a place deep inside her that she didn’t know still existed.

It hurts.

***

The shard. She has to reach the shard.

It is all that Anne can think about when she crawls across the floor, forces her body to obey her despite the hot rivers of pain tearing through her veins. She is so close-

Jack’s voice is somewhere in the back of her mind, together with Charles and Max and Teach and all those she has watched die, today and in the days before. They scream at her to move, to do it for them, to not have a single other death on her mind today.

When her fingers close around the glass she doesn’t even feel the pain.

The next moments pass in a blur and thinking back, she will forever be unable to say what happened. Instinct has taken over now, the instinct to fight, the instinct to wound and take revenge and bleed out every single scream that has been caught in her body ever since she was thirteen and her husband first laid hands on her. The shard of glass in her hand is nothing but an extension of her iron will.

At some point she is falling, but the floor never comes and it is only Jack who is suddenly there, all worry in his wide eyes that had so mesmerized her when she was younger. She wants to tell him not to worry, to wash that fear out of his face, but all that comes out is a broken moan and everything seems slower than usual.

Despite the pain, something is knitting itself together again inside her, a shard that is no longer broken, just splintered, here with Jack’s warmth beside her. This is as it should be. And if she should die now, at least one of them will walk free.

She smiles.


	5. A book [Flinthamiltons]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one I actually debated quite a bit with my friend whether the book Flint was reading in his cell was Meditations. We arrived at the conclusion that it was probably MEANT to be but look really different from the book we saw in season 2 - so I decided for it to be sth different. WIth a quiet nod to one of my favourite books & movies - The English Patient. ;)

When James wakes up the first thing he sees is the bright sunshine – that and Thomas’ face hovering just inside his view.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” There is laughter rippling through Thomas’ voice – he has always found it terribly amusing that James tends to sleep a lot whenever he is back from his journeys. James yawns.

“How late is it?” he mumbles, sleep still clouding his voice.

“Not as late as you might think,” Thomas grins. “But definitely too late for you to do anything productive this morning.”

“You’re only saying that because you want to keep me tied to the bed,” James protests. Despite his words, however, he doesn’t move, just enjoys the feeling of clean linen on his skin and Thomas’ presence so close, with their legs still touching.

“Maybe I am.” A twinkle of mischief lights up in Thomas’ eyes now. He turns around and grabs something from the table next to him before dropping it on James’ stomach. “But for now, this should be enough to keep you here.”

“Another book?” James laughs, but his movements are careful and gentle as he fingers the little book bound in red leather that Thomas has given him. It’s beautiful; everything that comes from Thomas’ hands is, to him.

“Of course. What did you expect? Actual affection?” Thomas evades James’ elbow with a grin and bends down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “I’m sure you’re going to love this one.”

“Herodotus’ _Histories_?”

“A friend of mine translated it into English for me a few years ago and I had it bound. You could say it’s the rarest item I own.”

“And you are giving it to me?” James can feel awe entering this voice.

“Of course. Who else would I rather like to have my most precious possession?” Thomas kisses him again and this time his lips linger. James smiles into the kiss and for a while, the _Histories_ lies forgotten on the sheets.  

***

Flint finds the book when he looks through the ruins of Miranda’s house. The _Meditations_ he has kept safe somewhere else, the words on its first page far too valuable for him to ever let it out of his sight for long, especially now that Miranda and, with her, the last safe haven he had on Nassau are gone.

Most of the place has been ransacked and demolished, but a little chest with books has survived and Flint’s fingers travel over the worn red leather that encase the pages of the _Histories_. If he closes his eyes he thinks he can still smell Thomas when he brings it up to his face – that scent, once so common and surrounding him from every angle, has now become something so rare that he treasures every moment he finds it. Maybe it isn’t even Thomas’ scent at all, but a phantom that his mind cooked up.

Maybe he has already forgotten the real one.

Flint shudders when his brain shouts his greatest fears so casually. He wants to forget but also wants to remember - wants to forget the bad and remember the good, but they are so hopelessly intertwined that sometimes he wonders if it weren’t better if he could wipe his memory completely.

Pressing the little book to his chest and then carefully tucking it into his pockets he decides, however, that sometimes the pain from those memories can be a good thing – after all, it tells him that he is still alive.

***

He cannot remember when the last time was that he’s had a time so peaceful and silent to himself.  Of course, his current lodgings are far from comfortable – hostage or prisoner, the cell he is in remains the same although they haven’t bound him – but it all pales besides the quiet that is finally his.

Some might have used this time to think, others to sleep, but he uses it to let his mind wander, back to other times and further beyond. He knows he can trust Silver to carry out their plan, so now, for the first time, everyone’s fate is in hands other than his own. The sudden freedom leaves a strange taste on his tongue. He is so tired.

Patting his pockets, he finds the _Histories_ hidden away in one of them and the echo of a smile dashes across his lips. He has to remember how to smile - it has been so long. He can still cite some of those sentences in his sleep, but their meaning is not important. What is important is the memory of Thomas’ voice they carry, of his fingers travelling up and down his back as he reads his favourite passages from it to James, of the faint tickling of his hair on Flint’s skin and softness in his gaze as he looks at him.

For the first time in a long while Flint allows himself to be carried away by them. Silver’s voice echoes in his head, about a place that unruly family members were spirited away to, but he doesn’t hope. He has gone too far for hope. But there is peace inside him now, a peace soft and brittle but gentle too, and it soothes his soul until he loses himself in the book in his lap.


	6. A tree [Flinthamiltons]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time I wrote this I had no idea it was gonna be canon. BUT IT'S CANON PEOPLE. IT'S CANON. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“We should plant a tree,” Thomas says, looking up into the clear sky. James walks up onto the terrace next to him. He cannot stop looking at Thomas before he follows his gaze - never had he dreamt to find him again, not after all these years of believing his love dead. He still has to look to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

“For Miranda?” he asks.

“Yes.” Thomas nods before he turns and smiles at him. His smile is the same as it was a decade ago and yet it is also changed  - it is deeper now, shaped by pain and loneliness but also brimming with a warmth that seems to trickle through James’ bones until it has penetrated every single inch of him.

“She’d have laughed at it and called us sentimental idiots,” James murmurs.

“Oh, of course she would have. Which is why we should plant it.”

*

The tree is small as of yet, but it will grow. Thomas waters it every day when it hasn’t rained with all the dedication that he usually only shows when it comes to books and counting the freckles on James’ back.

They stand in front of it and watch as it grows, week by week, month by month, year by year. Thomas’ hands have grown hard and calloused over time as they plant their own fruit and vegetables to live off and sell since the money that James brought from Flint’s pirate days is not enough to keep them sustained forever. They would never have it any other way though; Captain Flint is dead and James McGraw would not exchange that for the world.

They sit in the little tree’s meager shade with books in their hands when a leaf falls and lands in the middle of Thomas’ page.

“I think Miranda disapproves of my choice in reading,” he muses.

James looks up and feels a smile travel across his face. When he closes his eyes he can almost hear her faint chuckle. They will never be completely whole again, neither of them, not without her, but the hollow hurts a little less with every single day that goes by, especially now that they can both close it together.

“Maybe that means you should be doing something else. Like looking after me,” James suggests softly. Even after all these years, he still feels the tips of his ears grow red at being so open.

“Truly? You think that’s what she means?” Thomas laughs, a deep but gentle sound that is as soothing as the wind. He doesn’t wait for James’ reply but bends forwards to kiss him and for a while the rustling of the tree is the only sound in the world.

*

“It has grown so well,” James sighs as he stretches out beneath the tree. His bones have begun aching more and more lately, as age has finally decided to catch up with him. Thomas laughs happily and motions towards the set of china cups between them on the little table. They look almost exactly like the set that Flint gave to Miranda so long ago. James nods and Thomas begins to fill their cups, his movements slow and careful and barely hindered by the trembling of his fingers that old age put there.

They drink the tea in silence, listening to the wind sigh softly in the leaves and losing themselves in memories of other lives that seem far away now. Sometimes, just sometimes, James wonders what has become of them all - Silver and Madi, Max, Anne and Jack and all the others. Sometimes, he wants to know, thinks about sending out missives, finding old contacts to find out. Sometimes, he feels the longing for the sea beneath his feet and wideness of the ocean sky above him again.

Sometimes.

Then, however, he looks at Thomas and can feel those wishes slowly fade; he has all that he needs right here and would not endanger it for anything in the world.

*

There are ghosts where the tall tree stands, they say. Quiet ghosts, sighs that you can hear when you are there at night or on a lonely afternoon; soft laughter that sometimes rises up through the wooden structure of the slowly decaying house. A women, sometimes, two men, at others. Friends, lovers, family, nobody knows, or maybe they were all of it together.

There are two wooden crosses beneath the tree, cut from its wood that are now slowly turning into dust. They are leaning towards each other as they fall victim to the passage of time, as if the ones they stand for are longing for closeness even in death.

The ghosts seem to be loudest here; sometimes, so they say, you can even hear their names on the wind. If one would look, one might find a few shards of china overgrown in the soil. It is a quiet story that has found its end here, one that has long since left behind every shred of the violence and pain that once clung to it.

Listen, my friend, listen closely and maybe you will hear it too - the soft laughter of happiness as it dissolves in time.


	7. A hat [MaxAnneJack]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: I skipped episode 7 with the ficlets so this is for ep 8)

Anne turns the thing over and over in her hands. It’s a hat and an old and shabby one at that; floppy on one side and the edges of the other rolling up. She likes the way it feels in her hands - the worn leather, the weight that is just right. Resisting the urge to jam it on her head immediately she lifts it up in the air for the merchant to see.

“How much?”

The man names a price far too high and she frowns. Fingering the rough leather again she looks up, cocking her head slightly and fixing the seller with her gaze.

“How much?” she asks again.

More stammering than truly talking the merchant offers her a price that’s almost too low and she nods, paying what he wants without any further debate. The money has barely slipped into the dealer’s purse when she has put the hat on already. It sits on her head as if it was always meant to be there, just the right weight and the right size.

“Anne! Where’d you get that old thing from?”

Jack laughs when he sees her, giving the floppy edge of the hat a little snip with his fingers. Anne frowns at him and steps aside so it’s out of Jack’s reach for now.

“It’s a hat,” she murmurs protectively. Jack barks out another laugh.

“I can see that.” He pats her head a few times with a big grin. “It suits you.”

Anne simply glares. 

***

“Just how old is this thing? Don’t you want a new one sometime?” Max touches the hat as it sits on the back of an armchair in their room. She is as naked as the day she was born; she has never minded not wearing clothes, especially not with Anne. Her movements make it clear that she is completely aware of how beautiful she is.

“Don’t insult my hat,” Anne replies lazily. She is as comfortable as she can be, a bedsheet wrapped around her as she sprawls on the bed and openly admires Max walking around the room.

Max snorts but leaves it alone, coming back towards the bed. Anne reaches out to touch her as soon as she’s close, drinking in the feeling of her skin as if she hadn’t tasted it all night.

“So I take it you don’t want me to buy you a new one then,” Max laughs into their kisses.

“Never. I’ll wear this one until either it or I fall apart,” Anne grumbles, happy when she can draw another laugh out of the woman in front of her. She loves the little sound that Max makes when she laughs, wishes she could brand it into her brain to listen to it over and over again.

“Well, let’s hope that either won’t happen any time soon then,” Max smiles.

***

Anne looks down at her hands. She feels like she’s been doing so endlessly for those past days, trying to move her fingers, trying to ignore the pain in her palms, to tell herself that this is all temporary, that she’ll be back the way she was before soon. The little voice whispering in her head that nothing will ever again be like it once was she ignores as best as she can. Which isn’t well, at the moment.

There is a knock on the door and Jack enters, followed by Max. Jack is holding something behind his back, but he doesn’t reveal it until they are both standing in front of her.

“We got you something,” Max says and Jack nods along emphatically. “It’s from both of us.”

Jack hands her the thing that he has been hiding, something wrapped in a piece of cloth. They don’t offer their help as Anne clumsily unwraps the present, not a trace of impatience in their demeanor which she is absurdly grateful for.

She stares at the object in her lap for several minutes, not saying a single world, her thoughts frozen.

Jack shifts.

“I’m sorry it doesn’t quite look like your old one. We told the leather worker what it looked like, but this was the best he could do and…”

His voice trails off and he shuts his mouth with an audible sound. Max just looks at her, but her hands are clinging to each other nervously, betraying her anxiety. She remembers Anne’s words well.

Anne keeps staring at the hat in her lap. Yes, it looks slightly different, the leather is not as worn and it still smells faintly of the tools and oils the leatherworker used. And yet it’s undeniably her hat, just like the one that was lost. She feels as if a tiny part of herself has returned and clings to that still glowing ember, hoping it will reignite the flame inside her again. Bringing her hands underneath, she attempts to lift it up and put it on her head. It takes her several tries, but finally it works. The weight is familiar and calm rolls through her.

She doesn’t even realise that her cheeks are wet when she looks up at the two people she loves most in this world.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers. “Thank you.”


	8. A ship [Flint & Walrus]

She is a good ship. Flint eyes her up and down, gaze resting on the curves of her hull, the sturdy form of her sails and prow. Yes, a good ship.  

 _Walrus_ is her name and this is the first time he will set foot on her as her captain. His crew is waiting for him on deck and Gates is standing at his side, slightly nervous, waiting to introduce him to his new men. Flint hopes that they will be able to do this ship justice. She deserves nothing less, his _Walrus_.

When he steps onto the wooden planks a feeling of familiarity fills him, a faint echo of warmth that creeps up through the soles of his boots, as if he is being welcomed home. He has seen many a thing on these planks and weathered more than one storm cradled by her embrace. Each time it felt as if the ship herself had been helping him along. 

His fingers trace along the wooden grain of her railing and he has to force himself not to hum a little under his breath. He is the captain after all, Captain Flint, a figure that is not supposed to be smiled at, but held in respect and, yes, fear. He schools his face and steels his insides, shutting in everything that is not hardness and strength. There is a reason he has made it this far and not given in to any of the turmoil inside his soul. That reason is buried in a chest somewhere in Miranda’s house and he hasn’t looked at it in a long time, but somewhere on the slowly browning pages of a book there is still an inscription that he could recite in his sleep.

He’ll do this for him, for Thomas, and for Miranda, and all those others that have been wronged.

Flint takes a deep breath, feeling the _Walrus_ hum beneath him.

He is ready.

***

Everything inside Flint hurts. Despite the little bit of water they gave him it still feels as if his throat has turned into the sand he’s standing on. What hurts even more, however, is what he can see through the looking glass.

It isn’t the first time that the Walrus has carried him through storm and battle and it probably won’t be the last either. This is the first time, however, that she has been damaged this badly; it will take a lot to repair her, both in time, money and manpower, all of which are hard to come by at the moment, especially if his plan to recover the _Urca_ gold doesn’t work. Flint’s heart aches when he glances at his ship and remembers how proud and beautiful she usually looks when she isn’t half sunk beneath the ocean.

Somehow it seems to be a symbol of what is happening at the moment – something big has been set in motion, Flint feels, something that might become so huge that it could swallow them all. The _Walrus_ has become its second big victim after Gates and he has a notion that many more will follow before this is all over. He hopes he can get her repaired and return her to her former glory one day so that he might once more step on her planks and feel the reassuring hum of the wood beneath his feet.

***

The smell of burning wood and tar fills the air, so strong that even at this distance they can catch a faint whiff of it. The Walrus has been hurt many of times and came back again and again but somewhere inside him Flint know that she won’t this time. Yet another skeleton to pile on top of so many that litter this island and give it its name; yet another piece of home lost and gone.

He opens his eyes and tries to suppress the pang of loss racing through his heart. Between everything that has been taken from him a simple ship should not hurt this fiercely; sometimes he feels a surge of anger inside of him that he has allowed himself to grow so attached to a pile of wood, tar and ropes.

And yet he undeniably did.

The thought of the _Walrus_ lying on the bottom of the ocean pains him even more than he had expected; it’s as if yet another part of his life has been brutally taken away and ripped to tiny shreds. He won’t ever feel the wind in his face on her deck again, open the door to his cabin that was just ever so slightly too heavy or stub his toe on that one nail next to his bed. He wishes there was a way to resurrect her, but he does not believe there is.

Not this time.

Not when he is about to try and grasp fate by its hands once again for one last mad dance; not when he knows that things will end soon, one way or another.

He just wishes he would have had the chance for a proper goodbye.

 

 


	9. A sword [Flinthamiltons & SilverMadiFlint]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second ficlet for episode 9. I changed the fight the scene from the end of 4x09 ever so slightly to make it a little more dramatic ;)

“You’re slow!” Thomas laughs and steps around James, his blade touching his neck ever so lightly. “And dead now.”

James glares at him, trying to look offended. It doesn’t have the desired effect, however, just making Thomas laugh more loudly and shake his head when he offers James a hand to help him up from the ground.

“Still, not bad though. I never thought the navy could produce such savvy sword fighters.”

“And I never thought that spoiled little lordlings like you knew how to fight this well,” James grumbles as Thomas draws him up from the ground. Thomas throws a quick glance around but there is nobody in sight. With a little smirk he grabs James’ behind, ostensibly to help him dust it off. James barely suppresses a yelp. He still isn’t at all used to how playful Thomas can be at times.

“Say that again,” Thomas grins as he pats James’ behind a little harder than necessary.

“You’re impossible,” James shoots another glare at him that only causes Thomas to withdraw with a little laugh.

“Your fault for choosing a, ah what where your words again…’spoiled little lordling’ like me,” he winks. James groans. When Thomas is in one of his playfully teasing moods little can snap him out of it. In bed it usually ends with James kissing him just to shut him up, but that’s quite impossible here outside. For all his apparent softness, Thomas has a tongue as sharp as that of the old women at Borough Market.

“Maybe _milord_ would care to use his sword rather than his mouth to speak for him then,” James states and immediately regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. He can feel his ears blushing bright red already and please, Thomas don’t say it-

“Oh, so _that’s_ the way you like it?” Laughter is painted so brightly on Thomas’ face you’d think he’d explode any second. James just makes a slightly helpless noise but Thomas is, of course, merciless as always. He continues teasing him even as they take their positions for another fight, talking about swords, and ‘thrusting’ and mouths as gleefully as Miranda and he go over the newest court gossip. James thinks his face must be bright red by now and he wishes he could spontaneously combust.

Thomas’ laughter becomes intertwined with his sword and long after when he hefts the hilt he thinks of that afternoon and the barrage of terrible puns Thomas fired in his direction. Strange, that this would be one of the things he would remember the most.

***

The whetstone draws along Flint’s blade with a soft rasp. He knows he should be using sticks instead of real swords for fighting practice with Silver since every slash will dull the blade; but he had been unable to find anything of suitable weight and size and so the real weapons will have to make do. It’s not like they have endless amounts of time anyway.

“You’re teaching him the sword?” Madi sits down next to him without waiting for an invitation. Her fingers are deftly putting some of the pearls and stones back on her necklace that had snapped earlier.

“I am.” Flint continues his slow and steady movements, only pausing occasionally to trickle more oil on the whetstone and metal. Madi nods and the silence between them stretches until she breaks it again.

“Do you think you will have enough time to achieve anything useful?”

“I think so. He’s certainly improving.”

“Good.” Madi gives him a sideways glance and turns her eyes back to the necklace in her hands again. Her fingers keep working with the same surety as Flint’s; often when they both have work to do they end up doing it together and Flint has come to like those sessions that are mostly filled with amiable silence.

“Do you think he will ever have cause to use it against you?” Madi asks all of a sudden. Flint’s hands stop in their movements for a moment before they pick it up again.

“I hope not,” he says softly. He trusts Silver, more than he has trusted anyone ever since Miranda died. He doesn’t care what past the man might have or whether the future will spin their lives’ threads together somehow. He trusts him and that’s all that matters.

“They will all try to drive a wedge between you, you know.” Madi sounds as if she is talking to herself rather than to Flint. “Everyone knows that it is your alliance that keeps this movement alive. You two separate and it’s likely that we’re all dead, ground up between the wheels of violence here.”

“I know. I trust him.” It’s the first time he says those words out loud and truly means them.

“You truly do, don’t you.” Madi’s voice carries fascination. “Even when it comes to me?”

This finally makes Flint look up from his work, lowering both sword and whetstone. Madi meets his gaze without flinching, the question still painted all over her features. He knows that Madi is Silver’s weak point just like Thomas and Miranda had been his. Though both he and Silver would be destroyed over each other’s deaths they would manage to continue, somehow; but he feels that without Madi Silver would lose the wind in his sails before turning into a darker, more dangerous version than what he already is. Like Flint had after seeing the last remaining person he loved at the time murdered in front of his eyes. Would Silver place Madi’s happiness and life above everything else, even the success of their war? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to find out.

“I think he will keep his head on his shoulders no matter what happens. It wouldn’t be like him to forsake everything he stands for for the sake of one person, no matter how extraordinary,” he smiles a little at her, “he or she might be.”

Madi smiles back at his compliment, but her eyes are still troubled.

“Let’s hope you are right. Because I would not see the freedom of my people endangered either.”

Flint nods and takes up his task again, just like Madi next to him.

***

Their blades meet with a sharp sound and for a moment Flint wonders if he has trained Silver _too_ well. Or is it simply because he himself is holding back? He is defending his life, true, but no more than that. He doesn’t attack, doesn’t press his advantage when it comes, only takes care not to die.

Silver has a wildness in his eyes when he attacks that makes Flint shudder; it’s like looking into a mirror, seeing all the violence and pain in his own soul laughing back at him with almost ghoulish delight. And yet, he cannot say a word, cannot beg for this to stop because he knows his path is the right one.

His bones are filled with weariness.

Silver attacks again, a slash to his right followed by a quick stab to his left, blocking Flint’s blade when it tries to catch the opening in between. Flint evades the following quick attacks, concentrating solely on Silver’s blade as he steps backwards bit by bit. The ground is treacherous here in the forests of skeleton island, roots and little brushes providing obstacles that can easily bring one off-balance.

Flint’s boot catches something and suddenly he has to fight for balance, losing it when Silver attacks again, fully aware of the opening it has given him. His back hits the ground with a thud, driving the air out of him and he can barely bring his sword up to stop Silver’s blade before it runs him through. Flint is disadvantaged now and he knows it. He can fight with all the ferocity that he wants, but Silver is no weakling himself and he knows Flint as well as no other, seeing right through every kind of ruse he tries to pull.

Their gazes meet for a moment and then Silver smashes Flint’s wrist to the ground, over and over until he has no choice but to let go of his sword. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear Thomas laughing, calling him slow again.

Lord, but he is tired.

Silver’s blade is cold at his throat but it doesn’t move. They are both frozen in their places, a grotesque statue of time’s twisted and cruel ways. Flint wonders if he is fast enough to push aside the blade and flip Silver over before he can react. He wonders if he truly wants to. He wonders if it’s worth it.

He looks up and his gaze meets Silver’s once more. Flint has always been good at reading Silver’s emotions from his eyes – only now it seems like even that ability has left him. Silver’s eyes are a whirlpool of emotions all mixed up until they seem to flow into each other, anger and worry, sadness and stubbornness, like a loud scream that echoes endlessly between Flint’s ears.

“Why the hesitation?” Flint asks and is surprised when his voice is barely more than a gruff whisper, as if he has been shouting for too long without knowing.

Silver just shakes his head, as if to chase away an annoying voice inside his mind. His hands on the blade are trembling and Flint thinks he can almost see his heart racing through his chest. And here he had thought he had a place somewhere in that heart.

Somewhere behind Thomas’ soft laugh is the memory of him teaching Silver to fight, them talking about his past, the slight shame in his voice when Silver admits that he was a nobody who only became a somebody when he rose through and beyond Flint’s shadow. A rise that has found its eclipse now, it seems.

“Do it,” Flint growls. By the light, he finally wants to rest.

Silver opens his mouth to answer when faint sounds ring through the forest, sounds like that of a ship exploding. They exchange another glance and suddenly Silver is off Flint, has drawn himself up and grabbed his clutch to walk towards the source of the noise as fast as he can. After a moment of stunned silence Flint slowly collects himself, stands up and follows him, his bones heavy with forbearance.

It seems like fate doesn’t want him dead just yet.

He only wonders what else he must endure before he can finally find peace.


	10. A kiss [FlintHamilton]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S CANON Y'ALL IT'S FUCKING CANON \o/

The first time they kiss James feels like a toddler discovering a new world, eyes wide with the astonishment of what it has to offer. He hopes that what he is doing is right - he has been kissed many a times before, true, but never quite like this. It is as if he has forgotten everything he knew before.

Thomas is all softness, but demanding at the same time, guiding where James is unsure and yet molding himself around him, instinctively adapting to James’ insecurity. James can feel him smiling into the kiss when his arms come up to pull Thomas closer. It’s as much daring as he can procure at the moment but it seems more than enough for now.

When they separate again Thomas doesn’t step away, his hands staying on James’ shoulders. He says nothing, simply smiles, and James feels something inside him give way as it never has before.

***

“I never thought you’d be such a chaste kisser,” Thomas laughs as James keeps planting kisses between his shoulder blades. They are in bed, limbs entangled in their sheets but leaving enough bare skin for James to spoil Thomas a little. “Miranda didn’t teach you much, did she?”

James only snorts and kisses Thomas’ back again, this time pulling a little with his teeth. Thomas’ skin tastes faintly of the previous night still, sweat and saltiness and that soft taste that is Thomas’ own. Thomas grins but he wriggles a little close to James, humming under his breath when the kisses grow longer and more forceful, travelling down the entire length of his back.

“She certainly tried to,” Flint finally murmurs and the deep laugh that it draws from Thomas makes his chest vibrate. It always feels like a wave that’s enveloping him, that sound of richness and warmth and he wants to feel himself surrounded by it forever.

***

There is a beard on Thomas’ lips now and for a moment James asks himself once more if he isn’t dreaming all this. But no - the rest of him feels still the same, as incredible as it seems. It is still Thomas, beneath the grime and sweat and the scars, visible as well as invisible, that have accumulated over the years apart. The familiarity makes James’ heart ache, but it is a good ache, like that of a seed pushing its way through what used to be a surface made of nothing but hard rock.

They are both more hesitant and more forceful now, filled with incredulity that this is truly happening. The first kiss is hesitant but grows more desperate and longing soon - neither of them can quite believe that this will last yet, so used are they to fate ripping their happiness out of their hands.

It takes years for them to realise that this time, it truly won’t, that each kiss is a gift that can be given over and over again. As many times as they want.


End file.
